


Space Song

by hibiscus_tea



Series: making the most of the night [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: "Platonic" Heat Sharing, Alpha Shiro (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Coming Untouched, Crying During Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Face-Fucking, Grinding, Hand & Finger Kink, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Omega Keith (Voltron), Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Pet Names, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sparring, There's a small amount of plot, Wall Sex, its... mostly porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-02-23 22:11:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibiscus_tea/pseuds/hibiscus_tea
Summary: Shiro wakes with Keith in his arms.It’s easy to pretend that it means something it doesn’t.__OR: Shiro pushes his feelings for Keith aside to help him through his heat, and things fall apart.(pt3 of the series)





	1. Chapter 1

Shiro wakes with Keith in his arms.

 

It’s easy to pretend that it means something it doesn’t.

 

The room is still dim-lit, even though Shiro’s internal clock tells him it’s early in the twenty-varga cycle. The covers have been pushed against the wall at some point in the night, and Keith, settled skin-to-skin and breathing evenly, radiates enough heat to melt a snowdrift.

 

Shiro basks in it.

 

It’s the first time in a long time that he’s gone to sleep without his armour close to hand, and he knows it’s rare for Keith to sleep without his knife tucked under his pillow. Considering it now, Shiro’s heart picks up a notch. How long would it take him to get suited up and to his lion, if something were to trigger the castle alarm?

 

He finds himself trying to mathematically calculate his run time from here to his room down to the second, and pushes the mounting anxiety down.

 

Instead, he loses himself in Keith’s steady breathing, sweeping a hand over the warm curve of his back, up and down until there’s a puff of air against his shoulder. A sleepy, sweet sigh.

 

Keith is so soft like this. It feels strange to reconcile the word _omega_ and all its associations with the firecracker in his arms. Even beyond the stigma, Shiro can’t find a way to fit them together. Keith doesn’t want him like this. Doesn’t beg for him.

 

Shiro tightens his arms minutely around the dormant muscle of Keith’s sleeping body. Tentatively, he tucks his nose into the curve of Keith’s neck and brushes his mouth against the over-warm skin. A shaky breath.

 

He feels dirty down to his bones holding Keith like this, vulnerable and sweet in his arms. He knows who he is, and what he’s done. He knows what he’d do to save the people he loves, or to get back to them.

 

Slowly, between Keith’s peaceful breaths, the dirt of the Galra cell sweeps over Shiro’s skin. He can feel it crawling. He touches the dip of Keith’s back, and is terrified of the iron-rust smear of dried blood caked into his fingerprints.

 

It’s too vivid. Adrenaline pumps though his system.

 

Carefully, he shifts their bodies so he can lay Keith fully on the mattress. Then, he slips out of bed to gather up the pile of his discarded clothes by the door.

 

“Shiro?”

 

He is just stepping into his pants when Keith mumbles his name from the warmth of the bed.

 

“Morning,” Shiro responds, after a beat. He turns his gaze away from the naked spread of Keith’s limbs, the well-honed muscle. His heart trips over the bleary crinkle of Keith’s eyelids, the wreck of his hair.

 

“You’re leaving?” says Keith. The rasp of his voice is void of accusation.

 

Shiro zips up his vest and runs a hand through his hair. His heart pumps in his ears. If he was a different man, he would find it in himself to settle back into bed.

 

But he’s not that man anymore, and the directionless fear vibrates under his skin.

 

“I’m getting us breakfast,” he says. “Liquids, too. You need to stay hydrated.”

 

Their training doesn’t allow for many lie-ins and Keith sits up easily, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he pulls the covers over his lap. One bare foot peeks out, and the toes curl in a reluctant stretch.

 

Shiro fixes the line of his collar under that gaze, trying to cover the way he wavers at the door. Everything Keith does, down to the slight sleepy hunch of his shoulders, pulls him in with the strength of a planetary orbit.

 

“Okay,” says Keith, “thanks.” He casts a vaguely worried eye over Shiro. They know each other too well.

 

Shiro does a quick scan himself. His pulse is thrumming, but: “Are you feeling alright?”

 

Keith rubs absently at his shoulder, shifting a little in the sheets. He hums, vague.

 

“I’m okay,” he says. “I feel a little hot. It’s been relatively easy so far, so.”

 

He shrugs, leaving the rest unsaid.

 

“Alright,” says Shiro. He tears his eyes away from the curve of Keith’s throat, the bob of his adams apple. “Call if you need me.” He has a hand on the door.

 

“Mm,” hums Keith. He runs a lazy fingers through his hair, and gets stuck on a tangle. His nose wrinkles in vague annoyance.

 

Shiro wants nothing more than to push down his terrified instincts, and gather Keith into his arms, sleep-soft and warm.

 

But what he wants and what he can have are two very different things, these days.

 

So he turns, and he leaves.

 

*

 

The anxiety mounts, even in an empty kitchen.

 

He deposits food goo into two bowls, but can’t resist combing through the low-temp cupboards for their stock of fruit. Plump and translucent, each one is a slightly different shade of pink. They look a little like a golf-ball sized gooseberries, only flavoured somewhere between a ripe papaya and a tart raspberry.

 

It’s one of the few foods they’ve picked up that will make Keith smile.

 

He piles both of their shares on Keith’s bowl, and almost topples the whole thing when someone enters behind him.

 

“Whoa, chill,” says Lance, shuffling past in his lion slippers and a loose blue robe. He barely stifles a yawn in the back of his hand.

 

“Sorry,” says Shiro, “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

 

“Getting laid should make you _less_ jumpy,” ribs Lance. He leans his hip on the counter and winks.

 

“Right,” says Shiro, voice a little dry. “You would think.”

 

“Is it that bad?” asks Lance, and as insensitive as the question appears to be, Lance isn’t too good at hiding the layer of concern underneath.

 

“That’s not the problem,” says Shiro. “It’s fine. It’s-” he has to stop himself from rambling. “It’s going well,” he settles on. “Too well.”

 

Lance raises an eyebrow, digging into his own bowl of food goo. “Too well?”

 

“He hasn’t had a heat in so long, it should be a disaster,” Shiro elaborates. He sets the rest of the fruit back, allowing himself one from their small ration. The unexpected sour-sweetness of it bursts over his tongue.

 

Lance eyes the way Shiro has portioned the fruit. He doesn’t mention it, but something in his face shifts, subtly.

 

“Maybe you guys just got lucky,” he says.

 

Shiro swallows the fruit. “Maybe,” he says.

 

Their luck doesn’t hold.

 

Once he’s gathered up their breakfast, along with a few of the liquid energy packs, he makes his way through the halls to Keith’s room. He can already smell the scent of their sex through the door.

 

When the door slides open, the scent only strengthens. Inside the room, Shiro sets the food down, and taps the vents on, prompting the air to cycle faster. The low hum fills the air as the sound of the shower shuts off.

 

Keith emerges, flushed and a little unsteady on his feet. He tucks his towel around his waist, but overbalances and knocks his shoulder hard against the doorframe.

 

“Oh,” he says, a beat too late. A delayed reaction. Then, he trips over air. Shiro is across the room in a few quick strides to offer his arm in support.

 

“I feel like shit,” groans Keith. His skin is over-hot to the touch as Shiro guides him to the bed, but his hair drips frigid cold water from his shower.  

 

He sits on the edge of the slim bed, wrapped in his towel. He sways slightly, and his forehead presses to Shiro’s hip.

 

Shiro rests a hand on his warm back.

 

“That’s it, breathe,” he encourages, worry simmering low in his gut. He presses his flesh hand to Keith’s forehead in an almost maternal gesture, pushes the sodden hair out of his eyes.

 

Keith’s pupils are blown.

 

“I was going to call you,” Keith tells him, curling a steadying hand around Shiro’s hip. His eyes close.

 

“You’re heat-sick,” murmurs Shiro.

 

“Figured,” says Keith. He rolls his forehead against Shiro’s hip, fingers pressing into muscle.

 

Shiro exhales something like a laugh at Keith’s dry acknowledgement. Even fever-hot, he’ll take it in his stride.

 

“Can you stand?” he asks, and then steadies Keith’s arms as the man pulls himself to his feet.

 

“Yeah.” His  hands grip Shiro’s shoulders.

 

Shiro ducks his head to hide his fond amusement, instead focuses on untucking the knot of Keith’s towel, unwinding it from his waist. He brings it up to towel down dripping black waves.

 

Keith watches him quietly, letting Shiro tilt his his head this way and that through the drying process.

 

“Are you hungry?” asks Shiro. He catches a last drop of water rolling down Keith’s temple with the corner of the towel.

 

“Not really,” says Keith. He grabs the damp fabric now that Shiro’s done with it, and tosses it carelessly to the ground.

 

Then, Keith tilts up and kisses him. His fingers dig into Shiro’s shoulders, holding himself up. Always got a fight in him, even with a mouth as hot and sweet as that.

 

He kisses deeply, a willing tongue and the eager tilt of his head to push in closer. He’s fever-hot all over, and his hand shakes as it cups Shiro’s cheeks. Lips clumsy at the bared line of his throat. Shiro’s own personal heartbreaker - the soft, needy noise against his skin.

 

“How does it feel?” asks Shiro. He smooths his flesh hand over strong shoulders and feverish skin.

 

“Kind of hazy. Dizzy,” says Keith, between plunging kisses to Shiro’s throat. “Like I’m sick, but without the nausea. And it aches.”

 

“Where?” prompts Shiro, cupping the sharp line of Keith’s jaw with careful fingers. He can feel the open and close of it, the tilt to accompany the trace of a tongue over his skin.

 

"Everywhere you're not touching me," says Keith.

 

The touch of Keith's callused hands on his body shivers through him like a breeze, and he can feel himself hard against his thigh. He thumbs at Keith’s jaw and tilts him up, kisses his mouth again.

 

“Well,” huffs Shiro, lips brushing “I’m here to help.”

 

That coaxes the slightest smile.

 

“Now you get to save me, I guess,” says Keith. He runs his hands over Shiro’s scarred chest, shakes over his own breaths between increasingly needy kisses.

 

Shiro hums, touches Keith’s thigh to coax it wider. A heel sets on the edge of Keith’s mattress, and Shiro cups under the knee. Flesh-and-blood fingers trace down the outlined muscle of Keith’s thigh to press inside, where slick shines between his cheeks.

 

Keith moans, broken and quiet from just that touch, that slow rock to the first knuckle. Two fingers, then three. He’s hot and velvet-smooth just past the rim. Slightly loose with need. Shiro fucks them in to the last knuckle, curls them against Keith’s hot insides, until slim hips ride the push and slick of his hand.

 

Shiro kisses him until violet eyes go hazy with pleasure, until Keith chases the swell of his mouth.

 

“Don’t know if I can measure up,” murmurs Shiro. He feels the call of Keith’s body like an ache at the base of his spine.

 

“What?” mumbles Keith, grasping at the thread of conversation, but his knee dips, and he almost falls. Shiro steadies him with an arm around his waist.

 

“Careful,” he says, pressing a kiss at the corner of Keith’s parted mouth. He pulls out, and gets his arms under Keith’s thighs and lifts him easily, but he’s unprepared for the sweet little sound of surprise that drops from Keith’s lips.

 

They sit on the bed, Keith settled in his lap, heels tucked against the dip of his back. Keith is wrapped around him, eyes closing with a sweep of lashes, brow furrowed like he’s in pain. The click of a dry throat as he swallows.

 

“I can’t stop shaking,” Keith whispers. He surges up against Shiro’s mouth before a response can be formed, kisses him messy and sure. One hand reaches down between them to curl around Shiro’s dick, gives it a few pulls, a slow squeeze.

 

Keith groans, seemingly just at the weight of it in his hand, and Shiro kisses him before that knowledge can burn through him, shake him apart.

 

“Take what you need,” he says, meeting every fervent kiss halfway.

 

The head of his cock meets the slick give of Keith’s hole, and it's almost too hot inside. Keith lets out a grunt as he sinks down, mouth parted.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he rasps, forehead resting at Shiro’s temple.

 

Shiro turns his head until their mouths meet, lips sliding out of alignment as Keith bounces in his lap. It feels so good. Shiro can’t remember the last time his body felt this good. These two days shine from the rubble of the past year. Only hours and seconds tumbling between the heat of skin on skin.

 

He catches the raspy, melodic sounds from the air between their mouths, drinks them from the plush of Keith’s bottom lip. He lets Keith push him down against the mattress, winds his arms around Keith’s waist and kisses away the ache.

 

“Does it hurt?” he asks, keeping one arm around Keith’s waist, pushing the hair from Keith’s eyes with his flesh hand.

 

Keith’s lashes flutter, his head hangs. His fingers curl in the sheets by Shiro’s head. He won’t stop rolling his hips down, fucking himself on Shiro’s dick until the air is full of needy slaps of skin. Letting out hitching, breathless moans.

 

“Keith,” Shiro says again, “does it hurt?”

 

“No,” gasps Keith, thighs tensing at Shiro’s hips with every shift. Shiro pushes away the dark waves of hair again, and Keith’s head tilts to the side with the slight pressure. Mouth parted, Shiro’s eyes trace the line of Keith’s jaw, the flutter of his lashes. It’s all he can do to lean up and catch his earlobe in his mouth, suck until Keith groans.

 

His hips shift up to meet Keith halfway, and Keith really does bounce in his lap now with a guttural noise.

 

“Feels so good,” rasps Keith, mindless, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck. M’gonna come.”

 

Shiro almost salivates in anticipation of sweet heat-scent. He opens his mouth at the arch of Keith’s chest, seals his teeth in the space just above a nipple.

 

It's just as stunning as he remembers. Sweet and heady as Keith shoves his hips down and cries out, squeezes tight and unbearably hot around Shiro’s cock. Feet planted, Shiro fucks his hips up, keeps the pace through it. He kisses messy up to Keith’s throat, rolls his teeth against the scent gland. Slides his tongue over it to overwhelm the deep-seated instinct to _bite_.

 

“Don’t stop,” demands Keith. He presses his palm to Shiro’s shoulder to brace himself, lifting so he can work his ass back onto the thick of Shiro’s dick. Half-lidded eyes sweep over his body, a hand following over the tensing lines of Shiro’s abs. “Fuck,” he rasps.

 

His cock is full and dripping with the last strands of come. It fits perfectly in the palm of Shiro’s hand, the wet, pink head of it slicking against the slight webbing of his thumb. Shiro lets it fuck into his fist, watches the fill and gasp of Keith’s belly as he rolls his hips. Vulnerability in the abandon of all that strength.

 

“That’s it,” coaxes Shiro, drunk on the sight of Keith flushed and sweating on top of him. Mouth moving on autopilot, voice rough with want. “Come on, baby. Fuck my fist.”

 

Keith’s hips stutter, and his cock twitches like he might come again all over Shiro’s knuckles.

 

“Fuck, Shiro,” rasps Keith, fucking his hips down without finesse. And then clumsy, like he’s not sure how to land it: “ _Baby_.”

 

This man.

 

For the rest of his life, however long it lasts - it will be this man.

 

Shiro curls prosthetic fingers carefully in Keith’s hair, coaxes him down to kiss at his bottom lip even as that red mouth parts in a gasp. Hot breath fans over the bridge of his nose, and he watches Keith’s lashes flutter with the after-effects of moans. The heat of Keith’s cock is heavy and perfect in his hand. Just the right length to fit inside him, to stroke over the spot that would make him gasp.

 

There’s a slow kind of build in Shiro’s stomach, a slight change of rhythm. It comes over him in waves, trickling over his skin. It crests as Keith comes again between them with a helpless sound against his mouth, hot come striping his knuckles.

 

He flips them over, cushioning the curve of Keith’s head against his hand. Keith lands hazy-sweet, throat bared. He splays against the mattress as Shiro gets his knees up on the edge, gets them settled until he can rock in steady and deep. A slow, endless rhythm that has Keith arching, smoothing dizzy hands over Shiro’s skin.

 

“That feels so good,” breathes Keith, right up against Shiro’s mouth. His fingers curl into Shiro’s skin; one hand reaches down to grip at his ass, coaxing him deeper. Another whisper, lashes heavy with hazy pleasure: “You make me feel so good.”

 

Speechless, Shiro dips against his mouth and kisses him.

 

Come smears over Keith’s hip as Shiro fits his hand there, thumbs at the sensitive skin. Hot all over, edging out guttural little sounds with every slap of their hips.

 

Again, it trickles over his skin, shivers up his thighs.

 

“I’m gonna come,” whispers Shiro, kisses it against Keith’s mouth. ‘“Can I-?”

 

Keith whimpers, loud and desperate, nodding gracelessly.

 

“Knot me,” he begs, digging blunt fingernails into Shiro’s ass, holding him close with a strong arm around his back. He kisses at Shiro’s mouth. “That’s what I want.”

 

Shiro groans, brushing back the sweat-damp flop of hair at Keith’s forehead. He’s beautiful. The kind of stunning that sneaks up on you. You look and look and look and one day you want to kiss that smart mouth for the rest of your life.

 

He kisses high on Keith’s flushed cheek, drops messy kisses on his jaw, down his throat. Over day-old prints of teeth.

 

“Bite me,” moans Keith, fingers curling in Shiro’s hair. He’s heard it before as an insult, spat at another cadet across the room: _bite me_. Shiro fights a the echo of a smile, and sinks his teeth in. Never to break the skin, but he’ll leave a bruise at his shoulder. Soothe it over with a hot tongue.

 

Keith cries out, and Shiro comes.

 

Fused together as that hot rim pulses around his cock, slick smearing between their thighs. Shiro’s knees slide on the bed as he tries to push in deeper, feeling his knot swell, pleasure rolling through him. Keith strokes shaking fingers through his hair, hips rising up to meet his.

 

Shiro’s cock pulses inside him. He comes and comes and comes, filling Keith up. The implant in Keith’s forearm is a contraceptive active for the next three years. Fail-safe.  

 

The pheromones that run through them in response, though, feel unreal. What their bodies don’t know won’t hurt them.

 

They pant against each other, sweat-sheened, bodies humming with scratches and bruises. Shiro slips off to the side, aware enough not to crush Keith beneath him. The slight tug of Keith’s rim at his knot almost has his eyes rolling back with over sensitive pleasure.

 

All the same, he brings his come-slicked hand to his mouth in a haze, and licks the evidence from his knuckles, running his tongue along the inside of his fingers. Before he can prepare, Keith is shifting closer to kiss a smear of come off his bottom lip. Once, twice, three teasing, sucking kisses to his mouth before Keith flops back on his side with an almost dopey smile.

 

“Mm,” he hums, satisfied. His hair flops into his eyes.

 

Shiro steals another kiss, pushes the hair out of his eyes, but it falls right back into place.

 

“Lost cause,” mumbles Keith, gazing at him through dark strands. His smile is achingly sweet.

 

They bask in the afterglow for a while, exchanging salt-sweet kisses. Keith’s thigh drapes over Shiro’s waist, and he smooths his hand over it, playing idly with the dark hair. Lazy fingers lift Shiro’s white forelock, a thumb smooths over the curve of an eyebrow.

 

“Are you hungry?” asks Keith, cut off by the sound of his own stomach rumbling. There’a a pause, and then a giggle bursts over his face, crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

 

Shiro can’t do anything more than softly knock their foreheads together, revelling in the sound for a moment. Seconds, tumbling past.

 

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “I could eat.”

 

He touches light fingers to Keith’s hip, watches his face for any discomfort as he carefully pulls out. None appears.

 

He checks anyway. “Everything okay?”

 

Keith shifts his hips slightly, but the carefree pleasure on his face doesn’t disappear.

 

“I’m good,” he says.

 

Shiro squeezes his hip. “Breakfast,” he says.

 

“Breakfast,” echoes Keith.

 

It’s a challenge, to get himself out of that bed. He crosses the room on unsteady legs, and tosses the liquid energy packs over his shoulder to Keith, who catches them easily, spearing one with a straw right away.

 

Shiro settles with his back against the wall, plates in his hands, and something settles warm and shaky in his chest when Keith rests a messy head of dark hair right on his thigh. Bare body on display, long legs lazily parted as he slurps at his packet. Shiro sets one of the plates on the mattress, and picks up fruit with a clean hand.

 

Keith opens his mouth, and lets Shiro drop it in. The lines of his throat are on display as he closes his mouth around the fruit, laughing.

 

He swallows, slurps from his straw, says: “How come you gave me all the fruit?”

 

“I remember you liking them,” says Shiro, truthfully.

 

He picks up his own energy packet, but he doesn’t miss the way Keith’s face turns towards his hip, hair falling in half-lidded eyes. 

 

He doesn’t miss that quiet smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some tags have changed - double check to make sure!

The restlessness sets in later - of course it does. 

 

“After this,” says Keith -  _ this _ being curled with his weight braced on his upper back, legs over Shiro’s shoulders. His chin is tucked to his chest, and his cock rests flushed, wetting the downy hairs on the curve of his stomach. 

 

Shiro, braced over him, ruts into him between the splay of his legs, and the thought disappears with a full moan.

 

“After this…” Shiro echoes, barely a tease. Sweat beads on his forehead. They’ve been going at it for hours now. The ferocity of the heat comes in unpredictable waves, but for the moment, it’s mostly abated. All the same, Shiro’s muscles are starting to ache in a way they haven’t in a while, muscles that aren’t used to these positions. 

 

“I want to hit the training deck,” says Keith, grasping at the end of his sentence. His warm palm is cupping Shiro’s neck, cradling the tendons. It smooths around the hold the back of his neck, a finger tracing back and forth over the first knob of his spine. 

 

Keith’s face is flushed, he smells of heat and sweat. The thought of him on the training deck right now is, well-

 

Shiro can feel it in the backs of his knees when his thrusts stutter. Breaths come heavy between them. Keith bares his teeth for a moment at the change in rhythm, but it’s no more of a stretch. 

 

“I don’t know if-  _ ah _ \- if you should be training,” says Shiro, managed between breaths. His knuckles go white with pressure where his hands are braced above Keith’s head in the sheets, and he wants to curl his fingers into the splay of Keith’s hair on the mattress. Tangle where the roots are damp with sweat. 

 

Keith shoots him a look, but the effect is dampened by flushed cheeks, by a kiss-bitten mouth. 

 

“I haven’t left this room for a day and a half,” he says, mouth red, a low moan spilling out as punctuation. 

 

Shiro sighs, letting his head hang between his shoulders just to be closer into Keith’s space, to feel the heat radiating off him.

 

In turn, Keith’s hands find Shiro’s forearms, holding on loosely, body adapting to each thrust. A thumb strokes over the hair of Shiro’s flesh arm, the slight pressure there like a kiss. 

 

“Come on, Shiro,” coaxes Keith, smile building like a challenge at his mouth. Shiro knows that he can’t  _ really  _ stop Keith from training if he wants to train, but it’s nice that they’re pretending that’s an option. 

 

“Keith,” he says, low. 

 

It’s a rocking thrust, his cock pressed in until Keith lets out a grunt like it’s punched out of him, rough and strung with pleasure. Head tilted back in the sheets and his fingers digging into Shiro’s arms, leaving bruises over fading lacework scars. 

 

“Shit,” Keith groans, sidetracked, “that’s so good, Shiro.” 

 

It builds between them, the intensity. Heat trickling like drops of sweat down the curve of his spine. The way Keith’s violet eyes go deep and hazy with pleasure. The way Keith’s scent filters through his veins. It crests and breaks. 

 

Below him, dark eyebrows furrow in pleasure, tendons strain at a sweat-sheened throat. The rasp of Keith’s voice, that Shiro knows from years of friendship, breaks over the well-worn syllables of a name.

 

Shiro puts the same power into his next thrust, finds that pace and sticks to it. Keith’s calloused palms slide up his arms to knead at the muscles in his back. Blunt nails dig into his shoulder as Keith yells with it. 

 

“There you go,” coaxes Shiro. A satisfied smile curls at his mouth with every one of Keith’s overwhelmed noises. He sweats, grinning at the bruises of Keith’s hands on him, holding on, making their mark. 

 

“Yeah,” pants Keith, “ _ fuck _ , yeah.” Tucked below Shiro in the sheets and taking it so well. 

 

He looks blissed. Noble in the stretch of his throat and the fighting curl of his lip. Strong and stunning, and letting Shiro touch him like this. Trusting him with this. 

 

“It’s all for you,” rumbles Shiro, voice low in the humid space between their mouths. He’s diligent in his thrusts, eyes on the way Keith’s mouth is dropped open in a groan. “Whatever you need.”

 

“Shiro,” Keith mangages, “Shiro.” Shattered and raspy. 

 

His palm finds Shiro’s hot cheek, and Shiro can’t help but lean into the contact, ache with just the careful, rough palm of Keith’s hand cupping his face. He’s lost in it, the heat-daze sweeping through him. A thumb at his ruined mouth, brushing over his bottom lip and Shiro can feel it raging through his bones. 

 

Their bodies move in tandem. Shiro finds Keith’s blissed gaze, and mouths a chaste kiss to the pad of his thumb. 

 

“Oh,” breathes Keith, shaking apart on a messy exhale. His fingers dig into Shiro’s back. 

 

“Are you close?” Shiro murmurs against the pressure of a thumb on his bruised lip like a kiss. 

 

“Yes,” says Keith, moans it with his sharp little canines bared. His breaths hiccup like he’s spilling over a cliff, like he’s losing control. “After,” he manages to say between a over the shattered heartbeat of his inhales. 

 

Shiro manages a sweaty grin, dropping another breathless kiss, this time to the inner curve of a thumb, then the perfect, awkward shape of knuckle.

 

“Training deck,” he promises, because he’s always admired Keith’s stubbornness. 

 

_ Determination _ , his mind supplies,  _ his determination _ . 

 

Whatever it’s called, it’s the licking flame behind Keith’s answering, chaotic grin, behind the breathless sparks of his moans. 

 

Shiro can’t spare a hand - he’s balanced over Keith’s body keeping them in position - but his palm aches to fit itself to the hot, hard length of Keith’s cock. To work him off in smooth strokes, velvet-hot, eased with precome. 

 

“Come on,” he coaxes, “come on, sweetheart, let me see it.’

 

“ _ Gnh _ ,” manages Keith like it’s ripped out of him, blunt nails digging into scarred skin.He curls an arm around Shiro’s locked wrist, and tilts into it, pressing his sweaty forehead against Shiro’s arm. The curve of his shoulder calls to Shiro’s mouth like this. 

 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” Keith groans. It looks almost painful. His body locks, and then rolls with the strength of a thrust. “Fuck,  _ Shiro! _ ”

 

The scent changes, hazy and stunning. Tipping over the edge. 

 

Keith’s hand slides between his thighs, forehead still pressed to Shiro’s skin, fingers still digging into Shiro’s shoulder. It’s a senseless yell, the shake of his body, a sob muffled against Shiro’s arm. 

 

“Look at you,” babbles Shiro, lost in the maze of the moment, “just like that, there you go. Feels so good, Keith, honey, you feel so good.”

 

“ _ Ah _ ,” sobs Keith, eyes squeezed shut, face tilting up towards Shiro’s again. “Fu- _ uck _ .”

 

The aftershocks shatter his expression completely. 

 

Shiro slows his rhythm, the slap of skin fading to something more manageable. A slow, steady rock until Keith can get his breath back. 

 

Haunted by his words, by the precise tilt of his tone, Shiro keeps his eyes on Keith’s expression.  Once the dip and rise of his chest evens out, Shiro asks. 

 

“Alright?”

 

Keith swallows audibly, nodding as best he can with his chin tilted to his chest. There’s a change in position as Shiro carefully shifts his hips back, allowing Keith’s lower back to settle on the bed. He doesn’t slow the careful rock of his hips, and Keith doesn’t ask him to. 

 

There’s a tandem to their breaths. 

 

“Training deck?” Shiro tries, badly stifling the tease of his smile. 

 

Keith manages a shaky laugh, chest still heaving, accompanied by a twitch of his eyebrows that makes up for the lack of eye roll. 

 

“Sounds good,” he says, “just give me a second to…” he pauses for a shaking, steadying breath, head tilting back for a moment in the sheets. “Regroup,” he continues. “Man, you pack a punch.” 

 

Shiro dips his head, opens his mouth at Keith’s collarbone for a kiss that comes off only half chaste. 

 

“Take your time,” he says. The way Keith’s body jolts at just a kiss is gratifying, but the worry that this won’t dissipate in time hovers quiet in the corner of the room.

 

“Team leader of Voltron shouldn’t play dirty,” warns Keith, hand cupping the back of Shiro’s head. 

 

“No?” Shiro asks. “Not noble enough for you?” He pushes the worry aside. It has no place in this soft-lit bedroom, in this narrow bed full of Keith’s flushed bare body and tugging laughter. Under the gentle guide of Keith’s palm, Shiro’s mouth drifts down to the planes of a defined chest. He gently kisses the flushed skin, and then looks up for approval. “How about that?”

 

“Mm,” Keith hums. He tilts his head, mouth curling in a tease. “What  _ is  _ nobility, you know?”

 

Shiro holds his gaze, caught by the way Keith’s face moves, the slight, charming crinkle at the corner of his eye when he smiles. Slowly, he hovers his mouth over the peak of a nipple. Asks: “This?” 

 

There’s something bashful in the way Keith holds his gaze. The breath of a lost syllable. 

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” says Keith, answering a silent question. 

 

Shiro hides his smile as Keith’s fingers thread properly into his hair, gets lost in the shake of a moan when he lowers his mouth. 

  
  
  


*

 

Something changes between that shake-apart orgasm, and when they hit the training deck. Something lighter in the way Keith pulls on his clothes, the ease of his smile as they make their way through the hallways. 

 

“Come on,” he says - bare knuckles, fighting stance, hair in his eyes grin. 

 

Shiro stands opposite him, lost in the freefall of what used to be a steady orbit. He raises his fists - one metal, one bare. He steadies into his stance. 

 

“Best of three?”

 

“Five,” says Keith. His eyes are light, teasing over the anticipatory curve of his knuckles.

 

“Okay,” nods Shiro, “five.” 

 

They circle, slowly, a mockery of stability. Keith moves first, but even under the focus there’s a lightness to the way he moves, a tease in the shift of his step, in his sharp lunge. 

 

Shiro ducks out of the way, following up quickly with a jab of his own, then wrapping a hand around Keith’s upper arm to twist that lithe body around. 

 

The follow-through, the swing of their orbit. Keith ducks under his arm, grasps at him and almost slings him over his back. It would have landed Shiro on the smooth grey floor if he hadn’t already anticipated the movement. 

 

Like weights on a string, swinging in tandem. Keith moves, and Shiro follows. 

 

He sinks his fingers into Keith’s body, knocks him off balance. Keith isn’t as light as he looks, with all that honed, sharp muscle on his frame, but Shiro lifts him easily, slams him to the floor with a hand to the sternum. 

 

Keith hits the floor with a grunt, the breath knocked out of him, a glint in his eyes as he grasps at Shiro’s wrist. His chin tilts back, his back arches with the pull of his breath. He’s pinned under Shiro’s hand and he’s grinning. 

 

“Shit,” Keith rasps. 

 

Shiro’s body buzzes.  _ This was a bad idea.  _

 

“Yield?” he manages. 

 

Keith meets his eyes, grip flexing around Shiro’s wrist. A beat. 

 

“Yield,” he says, and Shiro can feel the vibration of it through his chest.

 

As soon as he lifts his hand, Keith jumps to his feet, settling into position. It’s that same orbit-swing-hit as before, only this time Shiro has his legs swept from under him with a perfectly formed kick, his chest slamming into the ground with all the power behind Keith’s compact body. 

 

They’re starting to sweat, and with his cheek pressed to the ground, and the playful growl of  _ yield _ in his ear, Shiro can feel the tension in the air building. 

 

Keith is up to something, in the way Keith never is. 

 

_ Best of five _ , Shiro thinks. 

 

He puts a little more effort in, and the next two rounds find Keith’s body pressed under his, omega heat-scent swimming through the air. Sweat and pheromones, and muscle under his hands. A sweaty grin. 

 

“Yield,” Shiro orders, and his voice comes out a growl. 

 

Below him, Keith is pinned under the weight of his forearm, pressed into the rise and fall of his chest. Shiro’s shin pins one of Keith’s thighs to the floor. He can feel the flex of the muscle through the layers of fabric, the heat of Keith’s skin. 

 

When no echo comes, Shiro increases the pressure of his forearm. “ _ Yield _ .”

 

There’s a look in Keith’s eyes. Something difficult to decipher, something that Shiro is all at once drawn towards and lost in. 

 

Keith grins. 

 

“I yield.”

 

Before Shiro can relax his hold, Keith is reaching up, curling his fingers over the shaved sides of Shiro’s head. Careful in his hold, Keith guides him down to share space. 

 

A kiss, slow and coaxing. 

 

His mouth is still kiss-bruised from the morning, and just the slightest brush of lips is enough to drip heat through him. There’s a messy, suspended exhale, and then Keith tilts his head and teases the tip of his tongue over Shiro’s parted mouth. Hot breath and a promise. 

 

Shiro swallows at a moan. 

 

Steady hands coax him in again. This time it’s a deeper kiss, slow and wet. A give and take, even with Keith pinned to the floor. His heartbeat thrums against Shiro’s forearm. 

 

“One more round?” Keith asks when they draw apart. Dark eyebrows raise. It’s innocent, maybe. 

 

“Yeah, okay,” says Shiro, unsure what exactly he’s agreeing to. 

 

He steps up and offers a hand, gets into position. He raises loose fists with the phantom-hot press of Keith’s mouth still settled against his bottom lip. 

 

Shiro isn’t sure whether he wants to win or lose this one, but with the look in Keith’s eyes, the decision has already been made for him. 

 

Sure enough, Keith moves with the kind of determination he would face an enemy with. A sharp focus in his eyes, dark hair falling over his forehead and his hands raised in anticipation. 

 

They circle each other. Shiro stays light on his feet. He sees the moment Keith decides to pounce, and already moves into a dodge. 

 

Keith is right there with him. 

 

It’s hand to hand, and quick-paced. Keith keeps a low centre of gravity, quick to make up for what he lacks in mass. A punch goes flying, and Shiro just barely dodges it. He grabs for Keith’s shoulder and is evaded with a duck under his arm as Keith tucks into a body roll. It’s an easy spring to his feet, and he turns to face Shiro, pushing the momentum through with a kick. 

 

It’s nothing but a  _ challenge _ , and Shiro finds a grin on his face as he knocks away the hit. 

 

He’s panting, aching with a spare bruise or two by the time Keith gets him pinned. It’s a knee to his back, his biceps kept in place with the weight of a forearm. 

 

Heat radiates from Keith’s body, through all the places they’re touching. Shiro presses his forehead to the ground, panting. The only sound in the high ceiling room is their out of sync breaths, and the thud of Shiro’s own heartbeat in his ears. 

 

“Yield,” he grunts. 

 

There’s no let-up in Keith’s hold. Shiro’s breath condenses on the smooth floor. 

 

A slight shift in the pressure on his arms, then the brush of hot breath against the curve of his neck. The open-mouth press of a kiss on sweat-damp skin. 

 

Shiro can’t muffle his groan. 

 

Keith’s forehead presses to the nape of his neck in answer. A low, full exhale, and then fingers tuck his collar down for another wet kiss pressed to the space high between his shoulder blades.

 

Arms still pinned, Shiro feels a hand curl around his bicep and squeeze, just as there’s a slow suck, the smooth of a tongue over his skin. 

 

“ _ Keith _ ,” he manages, voice low and rough. 

 

Keith only hums in response, and then the points are weight are lifted momentarily, only for Keith to drape over his back properly. Arms curl under his biceps, thighs hug his waist. A hot, willing mouth opens on the tendons of his neck, kissing messy up behind his ear as Keith’s steady weight sinks over him, as the heat of an erection presses into the curve of his back. 

 

A slow rut, a careful scrape of teeth behind his ear, and Shiro chokes out a whimper, spreading his thighs to rut slightly against the floor. 

 

There’s a heavy exhale, the weight of Keith’s forehead pressed to the bunched muscle of a shoulder blade. 

 

It’s good. It’s so good, but there’s something-

 

“Keith, I’m not comfortable with this,” he says. 

 

The weight lifts off his back so quick it’s almost dizzying. A stumble as Keith tries to get to his feet, uncharacteristically clumsy in his movements. 

 

“Sorry,” breathes Keith, “I’m so sorry, Shiro.”

 

His voice is earnest, serious, and when Shiro looks up at him there’s a flush on his cheeks and regret painted all over his expression. 

 

“Hey,” he says, “Keith, it’s fine.”

 

“ _ Shiro _ .”

 

“Keith,” he parrots, sitting up. There’s a hesitation in Keith’s movements like he’s wary, and Shiro telegraphs his position like he’s facing a wounded animal. “Look, its fine.” He tries for a loose laugh. “Turns out I just don’t like being pinned anymore.”

 

Keith lets out a breath, arms folded. 

 

“I should have guessed,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologise,” says Shiro. There’s no answer, and he sits forward. “Hey, Keith. Look at me.” There’s a hesitant glance to meet his eyes, and Shiro smiles, reassuring. The shame dips through him at his own reaction, but he shoves it aside. He has Keith’s attention. “It’s fine,” he assures, “I promise.”

 

Keith eyes him, arms still crossed. Then: “Okay.”

 

It’s not convincing. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yep,” says Keith, a nod as punctuation. He steps past Shiro. “I’m gonna work on some of the training bots.”

 

And that’s all wrong. 

 

Shiro catches Keith’s hand as he moves past, tugging lightly until Keith turns to look at him. He gets to his feet easily, pulling Keith a hesitant step closer. 

 

“Keith,” he says, low, “it’s fine.” 

 

And then he seals it with a kiss. 

 

Keith is a little hesitant kissing back, but he lets Shiro part his mouth, relaxing into it in increments, sighing when Shiro puts his hands on Keith’s waist. He allows Shiro to tuck his fingers under the fabric of his dark shirt and smooths up and down his sides. He’s warm to the touch. 

 

Slowly, Shiro coaxes the shirt over Keith’s head, drops it to the floor and gathers him close to mouth soft and hot at his throat. He has a puddle in his arms. A flushed, sharp-edged man who tentatively smooths his hands over Shiro’s shoulders and tilts up on his toes to press his face into the curve of Shiro’s neck. 

 

Shiro misses the weight of him. 

 

He takes a breath, and presses a kiss to the soft corner of Keith’s mouth. 

 

“Against the wall?” 

 

“What?” Keith rasps.

 

“Can we try against the wall?” Shiro rephrases, keeping Keith close with a light hold on his bicep. He wants to dig his fingers in and have Keith  _ flex _ . 

 

Keith glances behind him, gaze speculative. “You want me to press you against the wall?”

 

“Got it in one,” says Shiro. Confident to veil his nervousness. Keith makes him  _ nervous,  _ makes him  _ blush _ . 

 

“Okay,” says Keith. There’s that determination. The set of his jaw, the furrow of his brow as he crowds Shiro the few steps towards the vertical surface. “Like this?”

 

His back hits the wall with a light thud, Keith’s hands pressed to his shoulders. There’s focus in that tight-mouth stare.  _ He’s going to take care of me _ , thinks Shiro. The thought comes from nowhere. He feels so hot, it’s like he’s blushing inside out. He doesn’t know what to do with all this nervous energy. 

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

He doesn’t know, until Keith kisses him. 

 

There’s a squeeze at the back of his neck, a demanding press of Keith’s mouth, the security of a wall at his back. He squeezes at Keith’s bare hips, feels the curl of fingers through his hair guiding him down to kiss across the curve of a shoulder, to drag his mouth over the swell of a pectoral muscle. 

 

He opens his mouth over a pebbled nipple and grabs at the lovely curve of Keith’s ass. Gratified by a gasp, until there’s a light tug of his hair. Dazed, he lets his head be guided up, lets his back thud against the wall as Keith presses him into it with one hand, and pulls the zipper of his vest down with the other. 

 

The undershirt is shed around his waist, down the cut of his hips until his hard cock is on display, full and red with wanting. Keith groans just at the sight, and it’s a biting kiss at his mouth, the smooth of a hand over his hip, enough to make his muscles jump. 

 

“Can you fuck me like this?” Keith asks between the heat of their mouths. He cups Shiro’s balls, palm warm and sure, and Shiro sighs his pleasure against the corner of a parted mouth. 

 

“Shiro?” says Keith.

 

“Like what?” 

 

“Can you lift me, can you fuck me like this? With your back against the wall?”

 

Shiro noses at Keith’s cheek, moan low in his throat. 

 

“Yes,” he says, “I can do that.” 

 

Together, they tug at Keith’s pants, at the clasp of his belt. Shoes are tossed to the side, and then it’s just Keith’s body under his hands, warm and flushed and lovely. The curves of his chest, the lines of his thighs. 

 

Shiro gets his hands on him and lifts him easily, bracing his back against the wall as strong legs wrap around his waist. 

 

“Good?” Keith checks. 

 

Shiro adjusts his weight, settling into the balance of the position. It’s Keith in his arms, strong and stunning, hair a dark, sweat-damp mess. 

 

“Sure,” says Shiro, “you?”

 

Keith kisses him. 

 

It’s a minor adjustment to sink Keith onto his cock. Thighs hooked at the crook of Shiro’s elbows, feet planted for leverage. Shiro touches at his waist and meets Keith with a slow thrust upwards, watching the way Keith’s mouth parts at the stretch. 

 

He’s wet, slick even at the small of his back like he was dripping when they were sparring, like he wanted to be knocked around, bruised up. 

 

“ _ Keith _ ,” Shiro groans, and Keith’s hand kneads at his shoulder. 

 

The whole room spreads out in front of them. The team is out practicing with their lions, so it should be safe, but the  _ thought  _ of it. The edge of nerves. 

 

Keith’s other hand is braced up against the wall, fingers curled at an indent for leverage. 

 

“You feel so good,” says Keith, biceps tense, smelling like something close to paradise. 

 

“Fuck, honey,” groans Shiro, lost in the way Keith feels around him. He shifts his grip, and thrusts up, breathing in the moan that drops from Keith’s ruined mouth. 

 

“Again,” begs Keith, fingers digging harsh into the muscle of Shiro’s shoulder. 

 

It’s a rhythm, steady as training reps. Except for the way Keith gasps on top of him, pins his shoulders to the wall and moans with it. 

 

They fuck with harsh breaths, with hitched moans, with the messy wet sound of heat, of how needy they are for each other. Keith has an excuse. Shiro just  _ wants _ . 

 

“A- _ ah _ ,” sobs Keith, shoulders tense, head thrown back and brow furrowed. He’s fucked with every steady beat of Shiro’s hips, and flushed down to his tight nipples. 

 

“Good?” breathes Shiro.

 

Keith sucks in a wet breath, babbles. “Good,” he promises, “Shiro, you’re so good. Every fucking time you make me feel so-”

 

He cuts off with a messy noise, cupping the curve of Shiro’s neck. 

 

“Every time,” Shiro promises, breathless, “I’ve got you.”

 

Their eyes meet, and Keith’s are dark under his mess of hair. “I wanna kiss you,” he confesses, thumbing harsh under Shiro’s jaw until Shiro’s head tilts with it. 

 

Shiro groans, shifts his grip until Keith drops down a little and he can find that begging mouth, rut up into him and kiss the moans from his bottom lip. 

“Baby,” says Keith, hot between the tug of teeth, the drag of his lips, “baby, press me against the wall.” 

 

Shiro moans. The endearment still hasn’t settled confident in Keith’s mouth, but Shiro loves it, loves him. 

 

He flips them easily, presses Keith up against the wall instead, crows in close until their foreheads are almost pressed together, kisses him breathless. They can be faster like this, and Keith can cling to him, can grip at his shoulders and his arms and the back of his neck. Can smooth over his chest and tug at a nipple until Shiro tilts his head and  _ whines _ against his mouth. 

 

“I’m gonna knot,” warns Shiro, voice gone rough and begging with the way Keith’s hands are squeezing at his chest. 

 

“Oh, fuck,  _ please, _ ” begs Keith, raspy as he reaches between his legs like he can’t help it, fucks his dripping cock with his fist. 

 

Shiro crowds closer and buries his face in Keith’s shoulder, noses clumsily up to where the scent is strongest. He tongues at the scent gland, and up to the vulnerable underside of Keith’s jaw to hear him moan. 

 

“I never thought-” he says, and a dozen truths scatter too close to the surface  _ you’d let me touch you, you’d want me like this, I’d love someone this much _ . His voice breaks over a wrecked noise, and something bare and destructive rises to the surface. “I never thought I’d feel this good again.”

 

It’s a half-truth. He’s never felt anything close to this good in his life. He’s never loved someone so much, never wanted someone so deeply. But this. Just bodies. His is a machine, a scarred up metal-and-man soldier. He sobs into Keith’s shoulder, wraps his arms tight around him. 

 

“Keith,  _ Keith _ ,” he begs, and comes. 

 

He hears Keith cry out, feels the movement of his body, the arch of his back. 

 

They’re bound together with the swell of his knot, and Shiro’s face is wet with tears. It’s an embarrassment, he knows. To lose himself like this. Keith is a friend but he’s also part of Shiro’s  _ team _ , he shouldn’t be-

 

“Put me down,” says Keith, an edge to his tone. “Shiro. Put me down.” 

 

It’s awkward, but he manages to lower them to the ground, Keith still in his lap. It’s careful hands firm on his face, guiding him out of the safety of Keith’s shoulder. 

 

“You’re crying,” says Keith, staring intently.

 

Shiro sniffs, doesn’t meet his gaze. 

 

“Guess I am,” he says, swiping at his eyes. He must be bright red with shame and the dissipating afterglow. “I don’t know why. I can’t-”

 

Keith cups his cheeks and brushes their mouths together. Their foreheads knock. It’s slow, achingly soft. 

 

Shiro pushes him off with a gasp, hand firm on his shoulder. He blinks the blur of tears away, breath shaking out of him. 

 

“Sorry,” he says after a moment. He clears his throat, rests his hand on the floor to support his weight. Keith is watching him with concern, and a kind of low-grade hurt at the seriousness of his expression. 

 

“It’s okay to feel good, Shiro,” he says. He keeps his hands to himself, touches as little of Shiro as possible even as they’re bound together, even as he sits in his lap. 

 

“I know,” says Shiro, “of course it is.” His body still pulses with the after-effects of his knot. Keith has come shining on his skin. 

 

It’s quiet. Neither of them knows what to say.  _ Fuck _ . 

 

Slowly, Shiro lets out a breath. He sinks to the floor, laying himself out on the cool surface. He stares at the far-off ceiling. He breathes. 

 

“Can you come down here?” Shiro says abruptly. 

 

Keith still looks out of place, skeptical when Shiro chances a look at him. “You won’t be uncomfortable?”

 

“No,” says Shiro, “I think it will be okay… like this.” 

 

Keith doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “Okay.” 

 

He lowers himself over Shiro’s chest, lets his full weight settle, carefully. 

 

Tentatively, Shiro wraps his arms around Keith’s waist, turns to press his face into an inkspill mess of hair. 

 

“Are you sure this is okay?” Keith asks quietly. His head is pillowed on Shiro’s shoulder. 

 

“Yeah,” Shiro whispers. 

 

He tucks Keith in closer. He breathes in. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im SORRY its 4am i don't know what's happening either 
> 
> so! it's been almost a whole month and I am truly sorry about that. i'll try and keep updates more regular from now on. 
> 
> but otherwise thank you for the lovely comments!! the support for this story here and on tumblr has been really nice to see, it honestly makes me so happy. if you read the preview i posted on tumblr, i edited it a little for this chapter but it's mostly intact. it got more attention than i thought it would so that was really nice. 
> 
> all in all, i'm having a lot of fun writing this, and it's been really interesting to delve a little deeper into shiro pov, so please let me know what u think!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be uncharacteristically sappy for a moment, can I just take a second to say, from the bottom of my heart THANK YOU to everyone who has commented on this fic and/or messaged me on tumblr. I am honestly so lucky to have people that are so enthusiastic and just so genuinely lovely about what I write, and honestly you all make my day with your comments :)

Back in Keith’s room, Shiro settles on a chair. Keith sits cross legged on the bed.

 

With glowing tablets open in their laps, they go over the itinerary for the next day together. They discuss strategy, and the positioning of both rebel and Galra ships and weapons according to Blade intel and rebel liaisons.

 

“You know,” Keith says, brows furrowed at the screen in concentration, “if we could somehow separate the two Galra ships, we’d have a much better chance at reducing civilian casualties.”

 

Shiro pulls his eyes from Keith, and down to the tablet. He swipes the screen up to project a map visual between them.

 

“The rebels don’t have forces to spare,” says Shiro, “and the Blades are infiltrating the ships themselves.” He zooms them in on the larger of the two Galra battle cruisers.

 

“The Blades will enter here and here,” he points out, “and do as much damage to the drone ships and the hangar as possible before we attack. Then,” he zooms out again to the wider map, “they head over to the prison to bring down the defenses from the inside.”

 

Keith spins the map, focusing in on the figure of Voltron, currently positioned between the two Galra ships. He taps his screen, and the figure disbands into five lions.

 

“What if we didn’t immediately go in with Voltron?” he proposes, eyes serious even under the chaos of his hair, wrecked from Shiro’s fingers. “What if we divert their attention?”

 

He goes on to explain. “The Blades will already have done serious damage to the main hangars of both ships. That means that the Galra will have less resources. If we can draw their main attack away from the rebels, then we can free up the rebel weapons and bases as centres of attack instead of defense.”

 

“So we split up the lions,” Shiro nods, leaning forward over his tablet, to watch Keith drop the lions in position on the map. “We divert attention from the rebel bases-”

 

“Which will also reduce civilian casualties-”

 

“And then we isolate the Galra ships and take them out one at a time.”

 

Keith grins at him, glowing in the light of the hologram spinning slowly between them.

 

“Exactly,” he says, “and once the Blade disable the prison defenses, we can evaluate our positions and assign spare resources.”

 

“Good work, Keith,” says Shiro, surveying the altered map.

 

Keith smile goes a little softer around the corners, reflective.

 

“It’s good to be useful,” he says.

 

Shiro meets his eyes for a moment, and then flicks the display down onto his tablet screen.

 

“I’ll forward that to Allura. We’ll still have our initial plan as back up, but I think this will be a lot more efficient,” he says, all the while revisiting Keith’s quiet voice in his head. _It’s good to be useful_.

 

When he looks up again, Keith is settled with his back fully against the wall, scrolling through something on his tablet.

 

Shiro forwards along the new information, swallows, and then sets down his own tablet.

 

“Keith,” he says. Those dark eyes look up to meet his, and for a moment Shiro is at a loss for what to say. He clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Better,” Keith says, after a moment. There’s a slightly relieved smile. “I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow, I think.”

 

Shiro nods, searching for the words.

 

“You know…” he says, “I spoke to the team during the briefing, after you left.” He watches for Keith’s reaction. “I said that as strange as it might be for them, it’s even more of a challenge for you. And I said the only way we’ll pull through is as a team. Because that’s what we are Keith, a team.” He wishes he could set his hand on Keith’s curled-in shoulder. “We’re here to support each other. Whatever it takes.”

 

Keith nods, looking down to his lap. His face is largely unreadable.

 

“Whatever it takes,” he echoes, and there’s something rough in his voice.

 

There’s quiet for a moment. Quiet enough for the weight of the coming battle to settle heavy and familiar across Shiro’s shoulders. It puts the past day and a half in perspective.

 

He swallows, and suddenly can’t find something to do with his hands, there in his lap.

 

The problem is that Shiro now knows what he wants. Who he wants. He can’t go back to the half-shades of denial. And in these past hours, he’s learned that he’s largely more selfish than he’d like to be, when it comes to Keith.

 

So, Shiro does something that he hasn’t let himself do in a long time.

 

He gives in.

 

“Keith,” he says, and his voice comes out too heavy with emotion.

 

Their eyes meet, but Shiro finds himself at a loss for what to say. He clears his throat, shifts in his seat.

 

“If anything… makes you uncomfortable, you have to say,” Shiro warns. And then he’s up off his chair, and falling to hesitant knees beside the bed.

 

The intention is clear. The air is heavy between them. And then slowly, Keith’s legs unfold. He sits forward until Shiro is between them.

 

Shiro touches his fingers to the mattress between Keith’s thighs, wordlessly coaxing him forward. Bracketed by Keith’s long legs, he can feel his own heartbeat pick up in his chest. He looks up to meet Keith’s eyes.

 

Keith’s fingers twitch in the sheets like he wants to reach out.

 

It’s so strange that Shiro finds himself nervous to touch, too. It’s difficult to push aside all the layers and tug at what the _wants_. So he just falls into it, settles properly on his knees and tilts to press his mouth to Keith’s thigh through dark fabric.

 

It’s more than a kiss. He rubs his face into it, drags his nose along the strong line of it and then presses in again, closer to where he smells of lingering heat and musk. He barely stifles the low rumble of pleasure in his throat at the promise of it.

 

“ _Shiro_ ,” comes Keith’s voice in a helpless rasp above him. A hand cups the back of his head, and Shiro pulls back to take in the parted mouth, the dark eyes, the furrowed brows.

 

Keith’s other hand is dug into the mattress, fingers stiff.

 

Blushing, Shiro reaches for it, takes it between his two larger ones. Keith’s hands are lovely. Fine boned, the fingertips squared and sure. Callused, on the inside of a palm from a sword, on the curve of a thumb from piloting.

 

And then his wrists, _god_ but Shiro loves his wrists. Usually, they peek out between the end of a glove and the turned up white cuff of Keith’s cropped jacket. Bony and dusted with dark hair. Shiro always wants to kiss them.

 

So he does, thumb pressed to the soft dip of Keith’s palm.

 

He curves his other hand around Keith’s bare forearm. Objectively, he knows how strong Keith is, but like this, the size difference is arresting. He brushes his mouth over the soft inner skin of a forearm, opens his mouth and sinks his teeth in slow, just the tease of a bite.

 

It’s enough to have Keith’s thighs shift apart slightly in the sheets.

 

For now, Shiro won’t look up. His world view is here, the softness of a threadbare black shirt, a scuffed belt, thighs under the stretched fabric of dark jeans. And Keith’s skin under his mouth.

 

He brushes his lips up again, reverent over bare knuckles and hairlines scars. Over the smooth back of Keith’s hand. It curls and moves under his guidance.

 

Keith lets Shiro carefully bend his fingers, turn his hand to kiss the webbing of a thumb.

 

There’s something like a hurt noise from above him, a slight intake of breath.

 

Shiro inhales, caught just on the scent of Keith’s skin. He opens his mouth and tongues at the inside curve of forefinger and thumb, pressing his fingers into the dip of Keith’s palm.

 

There’s a real moan from above him this time, low and quiet. Shiro can’t help but dart his eyes up to find that Keith is blushing, dark eyes shining. His fingers curl to brush Shiro’s cheek, his other hand still resting steady at the back of Shiro’s head.

 

Unable to drop eye contact, Shiro presses an open mouthed kiss to the soft curve of Keith’s palm. The tip of his tongue dips across the slight salt of skin.

 

His knees dig into the ground. He aches between his thighs just from this, untouched.

 

Keith’s hair falls into his eyes when he leans forward a little, when his gaze turns considering. The slight pressure lifts from the back of Shiro’s head and his chin is gripped carefully, his mouth parted with steady fingers that slide over his tongue until he closes his mouth and sucks at them.

 

Dark eyed, Keith’s breath catches. His hold flexes at Shiro’s chin.

 

Shiro can’t help it, he moans.

 

It’s all he can do to wrap a hand around Keith’s wrist and take those fingers deeper, to lick at the seam of them until they part, until Shiro can press them right to the back of his throat. _I can be good_ , he wants to say, _I can be good for you_.

 

Keith lets out a heavy breath, and then shifts forward artlessly to the very edge of the mattress, legs spread to accommodate Shiro’s broad shoulders.

 

“Shiro,” he rasps, and bends to kiss him, fingers sliding out of a willing mouth, arms slung around his shoulders. Shiro meets him halfway, colliding with his hands digging into Keith’s back, wrapping tight around him. It’s the kind of kiss that wants to vibrate out from under his skin, wants to make a home in his lungs and bloom hot to the touch.

 

They pull apart, barely. Breathing hot against swollen lips.

 

Shiro cups a sharp jaw and takes another kiss, smooth and bruising.

 

“Keith,” he murmurs, “will you let me-?”

 

He lands a heavy hand on Keith’s thigh, squeezing it artlessly with the way Keith nudges forward to brush their parted lips together.

 

Keith says: “You can do whatever you want to me, Shiro.”

 

It’s so unexpected that Shiro has to close his eyes for a moment against the weight of it.

 

And then he’s up off his knees, pressing Keith back against the mattress with a hand to his shoulder and kissing him, manhandling him up the bed to rest that dark head of hair up against the pillow.

 

Keith lets out a raspy laugh when Shiro pulls back, delighted at the easy way he’d been tossed around, and Shiro’s heart _tugs_. Blushing hot down to his core, he presses a chaste kiss to Keith’s cheek, and then moves down the bed before either of them can dwell on it.

 

He settles himself between Keith’s long legs, bending with his palms braced on the mattress to kiss at the soft skin under the rumpled hem of his shirt.

 

Keith touches him carefully. A hand cradling the nape of his neck, a thumb brushing the shell of his ear. Kneeling, Shiro undoes Keith’s flies and unlaces his belt. For a moment, he trails his fingers indulgently through the rasp of hair down from a tucked belly button, and then hooks Keith’s waistband and tugs everything down.

 

Slim hips lift to accommodate him, and Shiro drops absent kisses on long, long legs as the fabric peels off, and he casts it aside.

 

“I want you to take your shirt off,” says Keith.

 

Shiro meets his eyes in surprise, to see Keith’s head tilted almost with a strange kind of determination, shy at the corners.

 

“Alright,” says Shiro after a moment. “You, too.”

 

He pulls his vest off, tugs his shirt over his head afterwards. When he looks up, Keith is bare beneath him, fading bite marks at his shoulders, bruises at his sides from sparring, mouth kissed red.

 

“You seem like a man with a plan,” says Keith, only slightly teasing. There’s a quiet seriousness around his eyes.

 

Shiro shakes his head, mouth curling in a smile.

 

“No plan,” he says. “Just- something I want to do.”

 

He lies down between Keith’s spread legs, gets his arms under Keith’s thighs.

 

“You smell so good,” he says, nosing along Keith’s bare skin, letting out a hot breath when the line of an inner thigh shines with the beginning of slick. Keith makes a low, achy sound, thighs tensing near Shiro’s shoulders.

 

Shiro redirects his focus, shifting forward to take in the view. Keith’s cock is flushed and almost fully hard against his hip. His balls rest round and fuzzy with dark hair, the slight blush of his perineum below. There is not a single part of Keith that Shiro doesn’t find beautiful.

 

He opens his mouth at the base, and the breath shakes out of him. Blood-hot under the touch of his tongue, he mouths at the shaft.

 

The exact pitch of Keith’s moan slices through him as he tongues at it, as he shifts his weight take the length in his hand, velvet soft and _hard_.

 

“Do you know what you like?” Shiro asks, doing nothing more than squeezing around the shaft in little pulses. It’s enough to have Keith shifting restless on the mattress.

 

“No,” admits Keith. His hands fist at the rumpled sheets. His voice catches. “I like what you’re doing.”

 

Shiro huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m not doing anything yet,” he says. “Tell me when you like something. I want it to be good.”

 

“Okay,” Keith promises. He’s never quite still, his breaths rising and falling, his body shifting in the sheets with just these soft touches.

 

If Shiro had his choice, he would take Keith in his mouth soft, rested there on his tongue so he can feel the way Keith squirms and gasps and hardens underneath him. So Keith can rock slowly into the heat of his mouth until his throat feels raw, until Shiro can barely breathe.

 

But they’re on a time limit, always on a time limit.

 

Shiro rolls down the foreskin with careful fingers, tonguing messily just under the head to hear Keith gasp. Shiro almost moans aloud when he twists his fingers back up and a bead of precome pearls at the slit.

 

Suddenly desperate, he shifts his hips up and reaches with one hand to fumble his flies open to relieve the pressure on his aching cock. He spreads his legs and ruts down against the mattress as best he can, closing his eyes at the feeling. At the scent of Keith’s arousal, at the taste of precome smeared on his bottom lip when he goes to suckle messily at a blushing cockhead.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” gasps Keith, body arching as Shiro tongues at the slit. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, “that.”

 

So Shiro does it again, and Keith’s stomach rises with the shock of his breath.

 

All he wants, _all_ he wants, is for Keith to feel good.

 

Keith’s cock is the perfect size, just the head flushing red beyond the grasp of Shiro’s hand. Thick enough to spread Shiro’s lips but rest easy on his tongue. When Shiro opens his mouth and takes it in, it presses bluntly at the back of his throat.

 

Keith grunts at the feeling, fingers flexing where his hand cups Shiro’s neck. He squirms desperately when Shiro gathers himself to swallow, tongue hot against the shaft.

 

It’s easy for Shiro to lose himself in it. In the scent, in the taste, in the weight on his tongue.

 

When he pulls off, his lips are full with the friction, and Keith cups his cheeks, touches at his messy mouth.

 

“You’re so good,” says Keith, chest flushed, nipples peaked, “that’s so good.”

 

Shiro groans, leaning into Keith’s touch.

 

“Can I ask for something?” rasps Shiro, scattered at the reverence of Keith’s hands on his face.

 

“Go ahead, please,” says Keith, touching at his own mouth now, playing absently with his bottom lip.

 

Shiro catches Keith’s wrists, guides Keith’s hands to rest at the back of his head, the base of his neck.

 

“Can you just… take what you want?” Shiro asks, unsure exactly how to phrase it.

 

“What?” His fingers tighten in Shiro’s hair.

 

“Like this,” says Shiro. He leans over and takes Keith into his mouth, reaching up to cover one of Keith’s hands with his own. He sinks down, taking most of that pretty cock in his mouth. Just when it starts to get comfortable, he presses down on Keith’s hands, forces his head lower until the head of Keith’s cock uncomfortably at the back of his throat.

 

Keith makes a confused, rough sound, and Shiro pulls off, spit dripping from his bottom lip.

 

“It’s okay,” rasps Shiro, squeezing at Keith’s hand. “Like you’re fucking me.”

 

“You like that?” Keith asks, fingers curling carefully at the back of Shiro’s neck. Protective.

 

“Keith,” says Shiro. There’s a need running through him, an ache at the back of his throat. He pleads with his eyes.

 

Keith swallows, adams apple bobbing.

 

“ _Please_ ,” Shiro says.

 

“Okay,” says Keith, “if you want me to-”

 

And then he does something devastating. Curls his hand around his flushed cock and feeds it into Shiro’s willing mouth, the head catching the curl of Shiro’s bottom lip. Precome smeared across his mouth and the back of his throat.

 

Shiro moans, helpless as Keith’s hands thread into his hair, as Keith’s legs spread on the bed for leverage. There’s the first tentative thrust, hips rocking up slightly to test how much Shiro can take.

 

In response, Shiro opens his throat, lets Keith rut against the hot cling of it.

 

“Oh,” sighs Keith, a hand smoothing down to Shiro’s cheek, “that’s so good.”

 

Shiro’s lashes flutter as Keith uses his mouth, in slow, careful thrusts. Fucking all the way to the back of his throat, fingers threaded tight in his hair.

 

When Keith gets especially loud, Shiro shoulders one of his legs, smooths two fingers down to press at his dripping entrance, down where he’s soaked the sheets.

 

He’s pulled off with a gasp, Keith instantly cupping his cheeks, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

 

“Are you okay? Did I do it right?” rambles Keith.

 

“Yes,” says Shiro, “Keith it’s so good.” He pets at Keith’s soft hole, the puffy rim of it. “Do you want my fingers?”

 

“ _Please_ ,” groans Keith. “Can I-?”

 

He threads his fingers through Shiro’s hair again as a question, and Shiro answers by taking Keith’s cock into his mouth, sucking slow, luxuriating in the push at his throat. He moans when Keith’s hips tilt up again, and Keith gasps with the sensation.

 

He slides his fingers in, instead. Two, welcomed right up to the velvet cling of Keith’s hole around his knuckles. Keith cries out, tilting their bodies so he can rest mostly on his side, leg propped open to take Shiro’s fingers, still able to rut into a willing mouth.

 

Keith is blushing, inexperienced, rutting messy and careful into the back of Shiro’s throat, and Shiro loves him loves him _loves_ him.

 

“I’m gonna _come_ ,” groans Keith, and Shiro wants it. He moans in encouragement, curling his fingers to slide over Keith’s prostate until he arches with a wrecked, rough sound.

 

Keith shakes apart when he comes over Shiro’s tongue, fingers curling tight in Shiro’s hair, blunt nails scratching at the back of his neck. Shiro takes it all, salty and dizzying with the remnants of heat.

 

He pulls off, gasping. “Oh _God_ ,” he almost slurs, spit dripping from his bottom lip until Keith pulls him up and kisses him. “ _Fuck_ , Keith, you’re stunning.” He lets Keith kiss at his messy mouth, bite at his swollen bottom lip, rambling between the intensity of it. “You’re so good to me,” he says, falling back into the pillow, gathering Keith close against him, kissing like he wants to inhale him.

 

Keith rolls them, presses Shiro back into the bed and kisses the breath out of him.

 

“I want to do that for you,” says Keith, all intense dark eyes and pink flushed cheeks.

 

Shiro looks at him, and can’t speak.

 

“I want to make you feel good,” Keith elaborates, voice rough and earnest, one finger tracing at Shiro’s chest.

 

Keith’s compact body rests over his, skin on skin.

 

“You do make me feel good,” whispers Shiro, stroking soft at the curve of Keith’s neck until the man on top of him squirms with a slight ticklishness.

 

“I mean like that,” says Keith, stubborn. Determined. “I want to go down on you. Your dick is so-”

 

Keith stops, at a loss for words, it would seem. Shiro, with hot cheeks and an aching erection, can’t even begin to imagine how Keith would end that sentence.

 

Shiro clears his throat anyway. “I’d hurt you,” he says.

 

Keith snorts. He averts his eyes for a moment, and then ducks his head to press an open mouthed kiss to Shiro’s chest.

 

Shiro sighs at the simplicity of it, and Keith’s mouth on his skin. He strokes through dark, mussed waves of hair. That soft mouth travels, and Keith shifts with a purpose, up to kiss open and hot at Shiro’s throat.

 

“I want to make you feel the way you make me feel,” murmurs Keith, stroking at the skin below Shiro’s ear with his thumb, touching his tongue under Shiro’s jaw.

 

Shiro’s breathing skips when Keith opens his mouth and _sucks_. His back arches slightly, cock aching, pressed to the material of his underwear. Keith reaches down, fits his palm to the length of it, squeezes at him with a low groan. Burning up, Shiro tilts his hips up into the hold, letting Keith kiss at his pulse point, turn his head to kiss at his jaw, the corner of his mouth-

 

They jolt to attention when the alarm goes off.

 

Between one moment and the next, they’re up off the bed. Keith disappears into the bathroom and emerges seconds later to yank on his paladin armour. Shiro only pauses to pull up his underwear where Keith’s wandering hands had coaxed it down.

 

It’s only when Shiro is sprinting down the hallway to his armour that he remembers that Keith’s heat isn’t properly over. That they were meant to have hours more, an entire night. That even a heat being over in two days was wishful thinking, let alone barely a day and a half.

 

The team meets up in the control room, Allura looking worried with Coran close by her side.

 

“Shiro, you’re here,” she says. She addresses the team. “The Galra ships have gone on the offensive. They must have been tipped off about our plans.”

 

“Or they just decided to jump the gun,” says Keith.

 

“Either way,” says Allura, “we no longer have the advantage of surprise, and we can no longer rely on the Blades having destroyed the main hangars.”

 

“So what’s the plan, Princess,” says Shiro, helmet under his arm, stood to attention.

 

“Kolivan is taking leading strike teams to the ships now, but we have to be there to support the rebel forces. We’ll just have to take more fire.”

 

Shiro nods, turns to his team. “Is everyone ready?”

 

“Question,” says Lance, raising his hand. "Isn’t Keith still in heat?”

 

“Yes,” interjects Keith, “I am. But I have it under control.” His jaw clenches, and Shiro has a sudden, vivid sense memory of a hot mouth at his throat.

 

“Alright,” says Shiro, “any more questions?”

 

He nods when there’s no answer. “It’s a change of plans, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. Everyone to your lions.”

 

The team scatters, but as Shiro reaches the hallway, a hand catches his wrist. He turns, and or a moment all Shiro can think is how handsome Keith looks in his armour.

 

It’s an echo of that first time in the hallway, the way Keith pulls him in and kisses him, a firm hand on the back of his neck, a grip on his wrist. Shiro tilts into it for a moment, and then Keith releases him, stepping back with the heat of a battle in his eyes. He sends Shiro a quick grin, and then jams his helmet on, visor half down.

 

This is the Red Paladin - this, and in all possible incarnations - the man he’s deeply, ridiculously in love with.

 

“I’ve got it under control, Shiro,” Keith says again, because he knows Shiro worries, knows he won’t say it out loud.

 

“I know you do,” says Shiro. He pulls his own helmet on, smacks a palm on it to knock it into place. “But if you don’t,” he says, “you let me know.”

 

“Yes, sir,” says Keith, shooting a grin. He rests a quick hand on Shiro’s shoulder as he passes. “I’ll see you in the air.”

 

“There’s no air out there,” corrects Shiro, but Keith is already darting around the corner.

 

His heart is _fluttering_ in his chest.

 

“Now that can’t be healthy,” he murmurs to himself, cheeks warm with the start of a blush.

 

But the rest of the team is off to their lions already, and Shiro picks up into a run down the hallway, close behind.  

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to have time to post this today because I was gonna go to a school event, but I showed up to the pre half an hour late and everyone was screaming and wearing minion costumes so I turned right back around. Thats the last time I turn up to a something school organized where I don't know anyone. 
> 
> Anyway! This chapter takes us to past 20k of this verse, so uhh this is officially the longest fic/series I've ever written. Just about two more chapters to go... 
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](https://vers-shiro.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I'm hardcore! I write smut!!  
> Also me: *writes missionary every time bc theyre in LOVE*
> 
> I finally got around to writing part three!


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